BLIND | DreamSMP

XXXI - A Way Out

Fundy didn't hate working with Phil because it was a betrayal of his country and friends. It wasn't that it felt wrong or scummy to eagerly detail the locations of weapons and armor on a hand-drawn map for the enemy, and he certainly wasn't still attached to the nation his father had built. 

None of those things bothered him in the slightest as he unabashedly revealed state secrets and plans for the trial, telling Phil everything he knew about the time, location, and schedule Quackity had laid out.

No, what made Fundy upset was how familial it felt to stand alongside a man who had been strangling him an hour ago. How easy it became to pretend they were on the same side of this conflict once Phil dropped his threatening composure and began to talk to Fundy without a knife in his hand. It was as if he hadn't double-crossed his grandfather and warred against the rest of his makeshift family; as if all of the lying and cheating and bloodshed had been erased, simply taken back, leaving something sentimental in its place. 

Fundy despised himself for reaching for that saccharine emotion, hated how much he wanted to embrace it. He felt pathetic, longing for the guise of family when he was the one who had broken it in the first place.

"And you're sure no one will be there?"

"Positive." Fundy said, his finger hovering above the crudely drawn armory.

He was terrified too, the prospect of even having a family again sending his mind swirling with panic. There was no logical reason to be frightened, but just thinking about it made him feel uneasy, fear webbing cracks through his brain. A part of him was convinced family was dangerous, and it was colossal compared to the part that dared dream for connection, swallowing hope in a tsunami of worry.

 It wasn't safe to wish for things like that. It wasn't worth it. 

The pain would outweigh the joy by tenfold, Fundy told himself sternly. 

Better to avoid it all together.

"You said I'd need a key to open the dungeon. Where can I find it?"

Fundy hesitated a moment before dragging his finger downwards, making a straight line from the armory to a decrepit government building.

"Here. There's a... a shortcut I know. We'll take that."

Phil nodded and moved on, peppering Fundy with questions about entrances to buildings and the least populated streets. He answered them quickly, not looking at Phil as he traced paths on the map.

As long as he was alive.

---------

The dungeon smelled like mold and rot. The heavy oak door to the cell hadn't been opened since Fundy had brought the prisoners a meager amount of food and water, and the lack of fresh air was suffocating. An occasional stale draft entered the room through a cramped window in the door, the rectangular hole covered with an iron grate that was too small for Tommy to fit his hand between.

He had slept restlessly last night, waking every hour with a jolt, scared that Techno might no longer be by his side; but each time he stirred, his brother was still there, gently stroking Tommy's hair as he was lulled back into a fitful slumber.

When the sun rose, transforming the pitch-black cell into a dimly-lit prison, he didn't move his head from Techno's lap, unwilling to lose the feeling of comfort it brought him. He yawned, opening his unseeing eyes, and stretched, reaching upwards until his fingertips found familiar skin.